


questions left so long unanswered

by RaisingCaiin



Series: soldier, keep on marching on (the story of Edrahil) [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternative Sexuality, Body Dysphoria, Communication, Explicit Sexual Content, Kink Negotiation, Lack of Communication, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Relationship Negotiation, Service Kink, Service Top, Stone Butch Character, discussions of consent, oh lord i don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 01:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13823664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: “There you are!” Findaráto is not in the main room, but he emerges from one of the connecting doors just as Edrahil steps inside. “I had wondered if you would join me tonight.”And so it begins: pleasure lances through Edrahil at the knowledge that he is watched, desired, sought after. “You know that I would join you every night if I could.”





	questions left so long unanswered

**Author's Note:**

> I've written a pining Edrahil into the periphery of three other fics at this point, but this very very specific version of him *still* might never have seen the light of day if not for the nudgings of these very important people: 
> 
> ~ [hennethgalad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad), my Slashy Valentine gifter this year, who bypassed the more conventional ships in my prompt to go right for my ~~heart~~ rarepair and write "[and go into darkness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13532385)"  
>  ~ [erlkoenig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erlkoenig/pseuds/erlkoenig), who a) opened my eyes to the wonder that is shady!Finrod, politically-savvy!Finrod, and borderline-bitchy!Finrod, and b) took my late-night venting about Edrahil headcanons and UTTERLY SLEW ME WITH THEM (["among some talk of you and me"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13752780))  
> ~ aaaaaaand [thulimo](https://thulimo.tumblr.com/), who resurrected me just to slay me again with _ART_ of these two. [HERE - THIS IS THE EDRAHIL YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ ABOUT ](http://raisingcain-onceagain.tumblr.com/post/171114988635/thulimo-but-in-the-dark-he-hears-finrod-shift)
> 
> thank you all <3

For all that they have been hewn from the cold grey stone, Findaráto’s chambers are warm and full of light. Even from the antechamber, candle-flames are visible bobbing merrily atop various ledges, and there is the quiet but unmistakable whisper of a fire in the great stone hearth.   

There is a metaphor to be found lodged in this tableau somewhere, if only Edrahil cared to examine it more closely. But in this, as in many things, he finds that he does not.

 “There you are!” Findaráto is not in the main room, but he emerges from one of the connecting doors just as Edrahil steps in from the antechamber. “I had wondered if you would join me tonight.”

And so it begins: pleasure lances through Edrahil at the knowledge that he is watched, desired, sought after. “You know that I would join you every night if I could.”

“Psh.” Even as he steps further into the room Findaráto’s fingers are already busy on the ties at his throat, and Edrahil’s own fingers itch with the need to seize them, still them, stop them, and take over the work themselves. “You are the only one holding yourself back, my silly friend.”

And then Findaráto is within reach, and Edrahil can no longer suppress the urge to touch. He reaches for Findaráto’s busy fingers and pries them gently from the ties; Findaráto, benevolent, sniffs but permits him. “I am fully capable of clothing myself, Edrahil.”

He had admitted, once, in the glow afterwards, that hearing his name from Findaráto is pleasant, and Findaráto, bless his cunning heart, has made it a point to address him rather more often and more pointedly than really necessary ever since. Shaking his head, Edrahil raises the hands he has captured and leans down to press a kiss to the knuckles of Findaráto’s fingers: first the one, then the other. “I have never had reason to doubt your capacities.”

When he lifts his head again, Findaráto is already laughing at the shade of innuendo. Good. “For all that they praise my silver tongue, I shudder to think what would become of us if you ever unleashed yours!”

And now it is Edrahil’s turn to sniff, even as he releases Findaráto’s hands and takes up the ties at the other’s throat himself. “Mmm. I doubt that a soldier’s mouth would be of much interest to them.” The only reason Edrahil even supports the new-founded court of Nargothrond is because of their new-made king; he sees no reason to let those useless fools have any more of him than is necessary.

And as he had hoped, the denial makes Findaráto smile. “Foolish of them, really. They have no idea of what they are missing.”

His left hand comes to lie on Edrahil’s arm, not hindering him but riding out his movements; his right rises higher still, his thumb tracing the corner of Edrahil’s mouth before brushing inward along his lips.

He is – he is learning, finally, and Edrahil’s hands falter at his ties.

“But perhaps that is for the best,” Findaráto muses, his eyes now riveted to his own thumb where it lies atop Edrahil’s lips. “Having experienced the talent of a soldier’s mouth for myself, I am not entirely certain I would care to share that knowledge with anyone else.”

He is – he is _definitely_ learning. Explicit acknowledgment, the direct hint of what he has liked of Edrahil’s actions in the past – Edrahil cannot suppress another shiver.

And Findaráto sees it. “I’m doing it right, then,” he says softly, with a hint of glee. His smile only grows. “Well. That wasn’t so difficult at all!”

He will be insufferable, and, if Edrahil has learned anything of him at all, he will not hesitate to use this newfound skill in utterly inappropriate places – the court, the council, the halls. But it is an impossible predicament, for neither would Edrahil actually have him stop. . .

He just needs a distraction.

He parts his lips beneath Findaráto’s thumb and takes it gently within his mouth. His teeth hold it in place; his lips and tongue pay it the homage that every part of Findaráto is due.

And now it is Findaráto who shivers, his other hand now clutching at Edrahil’s arm as if for support. “Mmmmm, Edrahil.   _Edrahil_!”

Edrahil lets himself smile, and Findaráto, surely feeling the pull of lips around his thumb at the movement, breaks so far as to groan. His ties are undone; Edrahil relinquishes his thumb, and Findaráto is panting when he lets his hand drop. “You realize, yes, that this does nothing to dissuade me of my admiration for a soldier’s mouth?”

Edrahil steps closer, bending to nose at Findaráto’s neck before straightening to pull the first layer of robes – a sheer, light green over-layer meant to emulate the springtime, with its embroideries of golden flowers – free from Findaráto’s shoulders. “Lucky, then, that I do not seek to dissuade you.”

“Lucky indeed,” Findaráto gasps. The green outer robes, now overflowing in Edrahil’s hands, are freed to reveal a fawn layer beneath; because it was a court day, Edrahil knows, there will be one more set beneath this, a shirt and breeches of cornsilk yellow or of white, and then beneath those he will find the cream of Findaráto’s skin and the gold of Findaráto’s hair.

Another shiver wracks his spine even as he take a minute step back, head turning to scout the room for an appropriate place where he might lie out Findaráto’s finery.

Findaráto complains as he goes. “Just drop them, Edrahil!”

There are chairs set back a little ways from the hearth. They will do for now, as Findaráto himself is Edrahil’s first concern and Findaráto’s raiment is only his second.  

Findaráto is beginning to mutter, impatiently, when he returns, though Edrahil had barely even crossed the room. “Edrahil! Concentrate!”

Edrahil raises an eyebrow but sets to unlacing the fawn set as directed. There is a rising urge to chide Findaráto, to tell him how much easier this would be if Edrahil had some more convenient place to set his garments, but – well, the bed is not an option, for Findaráto is a messy, squirming lover, and he has kicked everything but them off before, and then too Findaráto was so impatient to begin tonight that he situated them in the middle of the room, so that Edrahil cannot help but leave him for a moment to walk over to the hearth, the next nearest resting place.

But no matter. Edrahil can cope.

The fawn robe is high-necked and opaque where the spring ones were sheer and decorative; this layer is meant for modesty and contrast, for hiding the skin while setting off the flowers embroidered across the ornamental first. Unlacing it, then, gives Edrahil better access to Findaráto’s throat – to his pulse, his nape, the scent of him.

His hands still at their work again as Edrahil leans forward once more, this time to brush a kiss – perhaps two, even three – against that pale column. For as the high collar fell away, the many webs of gold and gems that Findaráto always wears settled directly atop his skin, and oh – the metal, the stones, may be cold against Edrahil’s lips, but the hints of skin that he can find in between them _burn_ by contrast.

Findaráto is gasping again, and his hands fly up to clutch at the knot of hair adorning the back of Edrahil’s own head. “Get them off, Edrahil. Edrahil. Get them off!”

Far be it from Edrahil to fail at his king’s commands. . .

He pauses in his explorations, pulls back just far enough so that he can see, undo, the intricate clasps and elaborate catches that hold Findaráto’s shining finery together. His fingers brush more and more skin with each chain of gold, each rope of gems, that comes away from Findaráto’s heaving neck.

Thank goodness he has a plan this time. Findaráto’s finery feels cold and limp in his hands compared to the neck and shoulders that he could be exploring instead, but he forces himself to lay each strand of jewelry out neatly across the seat of the chair by the hearth – respecting their probable cost even if he neither knows nor cares for such supposed value himself.

Findaráto is nearly bouncing in place when he returns this time. “Edrahil. I have attendants for a reason, even if you’ve scared them all off for the night. Leave the ridiculous things, please!”

“They _are_ ridiculous, and I would much rather attend you,” he acknowledges. “But they are also _yours_.”

He can tell from the roll of Findaráto’s eyes that the other does not understand, but it is all right. Findaráto does not have to understand – why, Edrahil himself barely does. 

Findaráto beckons, impatient again, and Edrahil is more than happy to come to him. 

His attentions should be returning to the fawn under-robe, but Findaráto’s throat, finally free of its chains and trappings, is utterly distracting. Edrahil does not fight its call.

Beneath his lips, Findaráto’s pulse is quick; beneath his hands, Findaráto’s hips stutter with the instinct to move, seeking friction. The skin of Findaráto’s neck is satin-soft beneath his renewed attentions. Edrahil knows Findaráto will whimper if he opens a little wider, teases a bit with his teeth; he knows that Findaráto will cry out if he bites.

Here. Just – _so_.

“ _Edrahil_!”

“Mmm?” He plays at the skin with his lips, but gently; he does not intend for Findaráto to bear anything more than a tingle, the slight reddening.

“If you will not remove these ridiculous things then _I_ will,” Findaráto pants. It is probably meant as a credible warning, but the way in which Findaráto clings to Edrahil’s own neck and shoulders seems to give up the lie – Findaráto no more intends to remove his own robes than Edrahil wants to let him.

 “Mmmmhm.” But just in case, Edrahil relinquishes his prize for the breath that it will take him to speak. “A moment more?”

“No _,_ ” Findaráto growls. “ _Now_.”

Pleased at the strain in Findaráto’s voice and the knowledge that it is there by his efforts, Edrahil smiles against the side of Findaráto’s neck, brushing one last kiss against it before pulling back to address the fawn robe once more. Findaráto, panting, loosens the circle of his arms to let him.

For a moment Edrahil loses himself in the reverie of watching his fingers loosen Findaráto’s ties, in the fact that he is doing something for Findaráto that so few others (none other, if Edrahil had his way) can – in the dream, if he were being honest with himself, that this means as much to Findaráto as it does to him.

And so he does not catch the beginning of the frown that creases Findaráto’s brow. It is only when the fawn robe falls, leaving Findaráto clad in soft boots, light breeches, and the under-shirt, that Edrahil looks up, and by then the frown is nearly full-grown.

Oh. _Oh_.

From Findaráto’s words earlier, Edrahil had thought that they were over this particular part.

He wills down a sigh as he carries the fawn robe away, stepping quickly across the room to lay it out where it will remain clean and unwrinkled.

He does not imagine that Findaráto has stopped frowning as he watches him go.

But he _is_ surprised to feel a hand settle at the small of his back as he finishes laying out the garment – Findaráto has followed him this time.

“I am sure that you know there are those who frown upon our, mmm, _dalliances_ ,” Findaráto says lightly. The emphasis on the last word, the hint at a difference in station that neither of them has ever had much use for, warns Edrahil that Findaráto is preparing for a fight.

The only downside of Findaráto’s silver tongue is that it is just as effective in anger as it is in diplomacy. 

Unsure whether his statement heralds a return to an old argument, or perhaps the start of a new one, Edrahil turns to face Findaráto, but carefully, so that Findaráto’s hand need not be dislodged, but instead can slide across his back and come to rest at his hip, if Findaráto so chooses to keep it in place.

But Findaráto does not, and as his hand falls away Edrahil’s back feels colder for the loss. And then they are facing one another again.

“So I have heard,” he returns, trying to match Findaráto’s light tone as he attempts to anticipate the issue they will apparently be discussing. “Does it trouble you?”

“Which part of it?” Findaráto asks, the lightness of his tone drawing back to reveal the anger that Edrahil had heard lurking underneath. Edrahil could understand this if he knew that it was anger at the people of Nargothrond, for the way that they have reduced their king, the one who had led them to safety in a darkening world, to the subject of speculation on his sexual preferences. But no, Edrahil suspects, that is not to be it. Not tonight.

Nor ever, really. And it still hurts.

“The part where they think you fuck me?” Findaráto continues lightly, and yes, it is to be the old argument again after all. “Or maybe the part where you do not even do that?”

He nods, shortly. His hands feel numb. “I see.”

There is not much else to say. They have tried, before, only to find that Edrahil cannot explain and Findaráto cannot understand, and eventually they will exchange words that they cannot take back and Edrahil will feel the ice driven a little deeper. . .

But no, this time Findaráto counters with something new. “Do you, though? Do you see?”

They have not been down this road before, to Edrahil’s memory, and already he mislikes where it sounds like it is leading. “Edrahil, you have done so much for me, first as my guardian after Ulmo’s visions, and then as my confidant when I began to delve Nargothrond, and now as the chief guardsman of my kingdom. You have always served me, my friend, and you have always served me well.”

Is he – are Edrahil’s limitations so severe that Findaráto must finally cut him away?

But Findaráto charges on, each word scattering Edrahil’s defenses and leaving him still more exposed yet to the next.

“But I do not understand why you think you must bring subservience to bed! I have never insisted on that, have I? We are equals here, Edrahil – we have never been otherwise! I have told you, have I not, that I am not here to demand my pleasure and give you nothing in return, I – oh no. Edrahil? Oh, Edrahil, please, if you get tearful about this then I will get tearful about this, and we will never figure anything out, you are supposed to be the sensible one. . .”

For as serious a chasm as this could be, gaping between them, Edrahil cannot help but smile at this statement – it is so quintessentially Findaráto.

“Ai.” Findaráto looks torn. “Let me hold you?”

For all that his outburst has shown that he still does not understand, _Findaráto is still trying_. He is asking.

He is learning.

Edrahil’s breath has been stolen away.

“Yes.” It comes out no more than a whisper. “Please.”

But Findaráto darts forward, closing the gap between them and slinging his arms about Edrahil’s waist; Edrahil’s arms rise automatically to welcome him. Findaráto’s head falls forward, as if he would lie it upon Edrahil’s chest, but then at the last moment he refrains; Edrahil _sees_ the realization cross his face. And instead, Findaráto looks up. “All right?”

He is asking, he is learning, and of course it is all right, it is _more_ than all right. But Edrahil can only nod, and Findaráto, a small but genuine smile breaking across his face at the mute confirmation, lets his head fall forward the rest of the way.

The weight of him in Edrahil’s arms, against Edrahil’s chest, is good. It is very good.

“I did not mean to upset you,” Findaráto says, his voice muffled for being buried in Edrahil’s shirt.

“Yes, you did,” Edrahil counters, and if his voice is ever so slightly wrecked by the tears that he has swallowed back, then at least Findaráto is kind enough not to comment on it.

“Mmm, I guess I did,” Findaráto admits, turning his head so that he can speak more freely. But for all that, his words still vibrate against Edrahil’s chest. “But not like this. I hate seeing you out of sorts. I just – perhaps you have explained it before, my friend, but I do not understand how you are taking pleasure from our times together, and I am not so selfish that I would want us to continue as we are if you do not.”

Sometimes, Findaráto will open his mouth and say such thoughtless words that Edrahil must walk away, lest he say something he knows he will later regret. But then others, Findaráto will say something like this, and Edrahil will remember all over again why he stayed with this one prince among many.

He leans forward, and presses a kiss to the crown of golden hair tucked beneath his chin.  

They do not often come together like this, with Findaráto clasping Edrahil. They had discovered, early on, that Findaráto’s hands tend to wander, and that Edrahil was then left to spend half his time plucking them from places he would rather they did not go, pressing apologetic kisses to their fingers before returning them to their owner. They had determined, early on, that perhaps it was easier all around if Findaráto was too distracted, or his hands were given some other goal, and thus rendered too busy to forget themselves and wander.

But perhaps that compromise has been preying upon Findaráto’s sense of fairness. And tonight, his hands remain fixed in place, clasped behind Edrahil’s back, and Edrahil can simply hold him close.

“I just do not understand,” Findaráto repeats, more softly this time. “And it is not that you owe me any explanation, it is just that – I would do better, and I am frustrated that I cannot.”

This is not true. This is not true at all, and Edrahil must tell him so.  

“But you can, and you do. Findaráto.” It is the first time that the king of Nargothrond’s right name has left Edrahil’s lips all this night, and when he draws back to look up at Edrahil, Findaráto’s eyes have widened for it.

And so Edrahil says it again. “Findaráto. You need change nothing, do nothing different.”

It is difficult to form the words, to force them out, but Edrahil can see now that it would be a great disservice to Findaráto, and to Findaráto’s understanding of their circumstances, if he does not. “I – I do not ask to serve you here, in love, because I imagine that I am your inferior in station. I ask because – because it is what I like. The coincidence with external degrees of station is simply – fortunate.” 

Findaráto is frowning again, but the expression is more thoughtful now than it had been before. “And so you will undress me, and care for my garments, and run hot baths at my slightest whim,” he muses, with the air of a games-master confronted by a pleasing but particularly challenging puzzle. It is obvious that he is casting his mind back upon some of their times together. “Mmm. I suppose I can see it. But, Edrahil, how does it sour this, this, pleasure in service-“ his tongue trips over the words, but not as if he is displeased by them, and Edrahil is suddenly running the hotter for hearing them said “-if I am the one to touch you?”

Ah. Well, Edrahil was a fool twice over if he thought that they could avoid this aspect of it. “Another – another foible, and one that – well, one that I would surmount if I could, seeing that it has encumbered your pleasure. I do not know how to speak of it, but I – I am not settled in my flesh, the way you are. The way that I think most are. My time upon the Ice, perhaps. I do not know.”

What he will not say is that he cannot remember all of that terrible time – as if there is a veil that has been drawn across his memories of it, one where he is not sure what he will find if he draws it back all the way. But that is not something to trouble Findaráto with tonight – perhaps not ever. It has no bearing upon them; it is Edrahil’s burden to understand and to carry.

He cannot quite meet Findaráto’s eyes; he cannot bear to look and find the anger returned or supplanted by uncertainty, or worst of all, pity. He is not broken; even if it is not inherent to him, even if the Ice catalyzed the change, it is simply a fact. He is not broken, and he does not need to be treated as such.

“Again, the coincidence between this and the desires I already have is – simply fortunate. It means that I am pleased when I see you comfortable and satisfied, and that I would heighten such an experience for you in any way that I can. But it also means that I – I do not know the same things myself. Or else, that I do not know them in the same way as you do.”

Already this is more, far more, than he had ever thought to tell Findaráto: all that Findaráto had really needed to know, perhaps, is this. “It is no judgement upon you, nor any slight to your skills. And it is certainly no indication that I do not desire you, or that I am not pleased to see you, to hold you, and – to love you. Again, it is just – just foibles.”

Against his chest Findaráto shifts and hums, considering something. And then, in an unexpected turn that nearly drives the breath from Edrahil’s lungs, he muses: “This is also why you would have me speak to you, then. I had thought it your pride, to have me tell you how good you were, but maybe it is more that you fear lacking a frame of reference.”

Yes. _Yes_. How did Findaráto know? He can usually tell what Findaráto wants and how it feels to him, but he worries all the same.

But Findaráto could tell exactly. . .

A fierce joy and a fiercer adoration war for control in Edrahil’s breast. But instead of verifying Findaráto’s keen insight or crying for relief that he need not explain it, what comes out of his mouth instead is this:  “You really thought me that proud?”

There is a heartbeat’s silence before Findaráto’s head falls forward against his chest again, and Findaráto laughs and laughs. “I did! I am so sorry! I thought that – oh, never mind what I thought. Edrahil! I am a fool, my friend.”

Edrahil buries his nose in the golden curls once more. “You are not. What else were you to think, if I said nothing?”

“I hardly know!” And with that Findaráto is off chortling again, save that this time, he turns his face inward again, so that his laughter is pressed right into Edrahil’s chest.

It is –

It is good. It is very good.

“Findaráto.”

“Mmmm?” Findaráto’s laughter is only just trailing off – the interrogative comes punctuated with an ungainly half-snort. “What?”

And because Edrahil is looking down this time, rather than away, he is treated to all the wonder that is Findaráto flushed and trembling with mirth, his face streaked with tear-trails and his hair mussed from its usual ethereal perfection.

“Findaráto.”

“I heard you the first time, you oaf.” Findaráto is still snickering. “To think I really was that foolish – embarrassing. When have you ever. . . Anyway! What were you- Oh. Oh, yes. _Yes_.”

He immediately misses the warmth of Findaráto’s arms about his waist, but the sight of the other scrambling to remove his soft white shirt at just Edrahil’s gentle tugging is – affecting.

And then Findaráto is half bare, down to his breeches and soft boots, and his eyes are shining as he passes Edrahil the shirt. “Here. Do your thing, but hurry – I will be waiting for you. And Edrahil – all of a sudden, I am quite unbearably excited for tonight.”

It is only a shirt, and three short sentences. It is only Findaráto walking back across the room, and sitting down atop the bed, and smiling at him, warmly but without any new expectations.

And yet – it is everything.

All of that was for Edrahil.

All of this is for Edrahil.

His hands are shaking, and he lays out the shirt with less precision than he had the robes. And then he is striding after Findaráto, and Findaráto is watching him, laughing again, right up until the moment when Edrahil looms over him with a kiss fiercer than any before it.

His hands curl in Findaráto’s mussed golden hair, and Findaráto cries out against his mouth.

“Good, good, that was good,” Findaráto promises, panting, when he tries to pull back. “No, really, it’s good, I loved it, you can even pull a little harder if you like-“ and he trails off, yelping, when Edrahil follows the direction tentatively, unwilling to treat him quite so roughly and somewhat disbelieving that it could really be as pleasurable as Findaráto seems to feel it is. “Perfect, there you are, Edrahil, _please_!”

Findaráto’s words run as if a dam has burst, now that he knows Edrahil is not simply looking for praise or direction. Or, well – not _only_ praise and direction.

With one last, gentle tug – if anything, Findaráto’s hair is even more lovely when it bears the mark of Edrahil’s touch – Edrahil slides to his knees at the side of the bed.

Above him Findaráto groans in disbelief, and his voice when he speaks again is almost petulant. “Can we not just leave the damn boots?”

This, _this_ is what Edrahil lives to see: Findaráto as he actually is, in the moments when he does not feel the need to don one of his many – admittedly beautiful – masks. Edrahil serves a Findaráto who is not just the diplomat who treats with gods and Avari and treacherous court-snakes; the Findaráto who is not just a peerless musician with ever-dancing fingers. The Findaráto who is more than a king gracious and cheerful to the least of his subjects, more than even the prince who risked his life to haul cold jewels and gold across the Ice. A Findaráto who can smile and forget that he was the visionary chosen to bear the weight of the Sea-Power’s prophecies.

Edrahil has always preferred the truth behind those masks, beautiful as each of them is. 

He serves the diplomat who loses his patience, but only in private, out of earshot of those whose hard heads would benefit by his wisdom if only they could still their clicking teeth long enough to listen. Edrahil would kiss the musician who splutters and loses his place when he misses a note in a new piece; the king who grows weary, and eats and shits and laughs in the same ways as do his subjects. Edrahil would kneel for the prince who knew just how well he looked wearing those gems; would hold the visionary who was proud that, of all the Noldor, he was deemed strong enough to hear Ulmo’s decrees.

Edrahil treasures the truth, and all the more so when he has seen its deepest and most vulnerable parts.

He has known the diplomat who truly believes that he can achieve peace, if only he works hard enough to understand all sides: Edrahil loves Findaráto for this, though one of those other sides will surely kill them both some day. He has known the musician whose fingers only falter because they were bitten to  the quick by the Ice: Edrahil loves Findaráto for this, for pushing forward past the pain in search of a respite he once loved. Edrahil has known the king who ever pushes his own weariness aside, thinking others need him to be strong; the prince who must have gone without sufficient food or warmth in his dreams of brokering peace, and wondered if any would ever notice his beauty or his sacrifice, as great as both were. And Edrahil was the first to ever meet the visionary who had foreseen the manner of his own death, for Findaráto had wept his tears dry in Edrahil’s arms for near a fortnight after that fateful trip, and yet could not be persuaded to speak of his visions until the worst of his knowledge had faded, lest by giving it utterance he might trap Edrahil too.

If Edrahil truly is proud, as Findaráto had earlier accused him of being, then perhaps it is pride in the fact that he is entrusted with the very truths that Findaráto must hide from everyone else –that Findaráto is petulant and demanding and insatiable and incorrigible and giving and oh so very much loved.

“We are not leaving the boots,” he scolds. Gently. “They will dirty your bedclothes. Here.”

Findaráto rolls his eyes. “Hurry, then. That cannot be comfortable for you.”

Edrahil cannot suppress a smile: he has done this many times before, and is none the worse for wear. “I want to. Please. Let me.”

They are soft and supple light brown leather, meant for easy riding or well-kept floors. They mold to the wearer; every plane of Findaráto’s foot is distinct to Edrahil’s eyes. He lifts the first, and in retribution for Findaráto’s impatience, presses a kiss to the side, right over his ankle, even as he grasps the heel and makes to slide it free.

Above him, Findaráto chokes on an indrawn breath. He felt that, then.

He raises his head to regard Findaráto, and does not slide the boot free, not yet. But Findaráto seems lost for words.

“Is it the boot or the foot?” Edrahil asks, softly.

“It is you, you ridiculous creature,” Findaráto breathes. “I do not understand the appeal from your side in the slightest, but if your plans did not involve me spending in my pants at the sight you make there at my feet _then I would recommend that you get on with it.”_

O- _ho_.

He slides the leather free, fighting not to smile over-large and noting the returned strain in Findaráto’s voice for another night. “Give me the other.”

But Findaráto just laughs, tugging his bare foot from the cradle of Edrahil’s hand so that he can swing both feet, one still booted, up atop the bed.

Edrahil rises to his feet with a sigh for form’s sake, but he is sure that Findaráto must see the smile struggling to break loose. “Was that really necessary?”

“It was,” Findaráto murmurs. He stretches, as if to work out a knot in his back, but Edrahil imagines that he must know how he looks – a vision in cream and gold against the deep dark blue of the bedclothes, with his skin flushed bright and his hair throwing back the warmth of firelight and candlelight ten times over. And Findaráto, seeing him looking, edits the tableau again, planting his feet and raising his knees, crooking his left open in invitation. His left hand lies lax across his naked belly; his right wanders idly down his body, pausing only to stop and toy lazily with his own sex through his breeches.

Edrahil cannot quite prevent a pained noise from rising within his own throat at the sight.

Findaráto’s eyes are alight with mirth and his mouth quirks into a smile when Edrahil is finally able to lift his eyes. “Well, no one took them off for me.”

Edrahil struggles to clear his throat. “A shame.” He clambers forward to join him, coming to a rest before Findaráto’s raised knees, which twitch a little wider in welcome.

“It is,” Findaráto returns with a sigh. Then the foot that is still booted is rising and Edrahil lifts his hands to accept it but Findaráto bypasses them and raises it higher until –

He kicks forward, gently, and that boot comes to rest lightly against Edrahil’s chest.  

Likely, Findaráto meant it in jest, and there is no force behind the placement at all. But still – the weight, the motion, the deliberation of it is enough to drive the breath from Edrahil’s very lungs.

He is breathing harder when he catches at the heel and holds it in place long enough to press a kiss to the toe. “A moment?”

Findaráto nods, curious, and drops his foot to Edrahil’s lap, but he watches, avid, as Edrahil pulls off his own thin shirt. “Perhaps this will be a good night for you too, then?”

It is rare that Edrahil is ever fully unclothed. Findaráto is asking whether this means he will rouse.

“It is a good night no matter what happens,” Edrahil begins, leaning forward a bit as he tries to marshal his scattered thoughts and explain. “You are here, and I do not-“

But, all unexpected, the movement grinds him into Findaráto’s boot, and it –

Oh, it is very good.

His entire body curls forward and into and around that sensation, chasing an illusory height. His hand clamps down about Findaráto’s ankle, preventing him from drawing away.

Findaráto watches him pant, considering again. _And then he pushes his foot forward_ , and it is –

It is certainly Edrahil’s turn to cry out.

“Really,” Findaráto murmurs, but at least he sounds more curious than censorious. “You do not want my ass or my mouth, but you will take a boot?”

“ _No_ ,” he manages to breathe, and forces himself to loosen his grip – only to catch again at the heel when Findaráto frowns and begins to pull away, thinking this a rejection. He swallows, and tries again. “No, no. It is, I -“

It is that Findaráto was not thinking of him when he laid his foot there. It is that Edrahil had no hand in producing that sensation, and that he could not have predicted it even if he had.

He settles for whispering his thanks but not explaining them. Settles for pulling the boot free, and then the breeches down, so that Findaráto and his excitement are laid bare before him and Edrahil has all the remainder of the night to do with that fact what he will.

Or, well, whatever Findaráto in his impatience will allow him the time for. “Edrahil! Come on, come on – you say you like to hear me say your name. Imagine if I were to scream it, eh?”

“Mmmm.” Just because he cannot bring himself to take Findaráto’s mouth does not mean that Edrahil will not give Findaráto his.

“Edrahil!”

There. Something about this is utterly satisfying to Edrahil, and so he works to ensure that Findaráto will find his end of it the same.

Salt and musk seep across his diligent tongue.

“ _Edrahil_!” Findaráto’s hands have returned to the knot of his hair, one of the few places where Edrahil is always happy to have them, and so he hums, approving.

It is not quite the scream that Findaráto had challenged him to produce, but it is close enough. “ _Edrahil_!”

His lips are wet when he draws back; a messy line of spit keeps his mouth in connection to Findaráto until he swipes it away with the back of his hand. Findaráto, still watching his every move, moans.  

 “Oil.” It comes out in a rasp.

“Oh? Oh!” Findaráto stares a moment before starting, rolling gracelessly to his side and scrambling to pull open the drawers in the bedside bureau, one after another after another. Half the bedclothes are kicked away in the process; more than once Edrahil ducks a kick.

See? Messy. Edrahil knew he was right to lay Findaráto’s clothes far away.

“I can’t – damnation. Edrahil! Where did I leave it last time?” Findaráto’s scrabbling becomes more frantic still, and Edrahil’s heart feels as though it will burst with fondness. Sighing, half-laughing, he lifts himself to hands and knees and crawls over Findaráto to snag the little faceted vial from where it lies atop the bureau, not within its drawers, just as it has been the last three times as well.

Prize snagged, he inches back again, careful to reposition his hands and knees to either side of Findaráto’s prone body.

“Oh,” Findaráto breathes, low and reverent beneath him.

What?

But when he looks down, concerned, Findaráto is only looking up, and his eyes are wide and dark with lust. “ _Edrahil_.”

And then Findaráto is reaching, tentative, but his hand stops just shy of skin, and Edrahil – Edrahil _sees_ him recollecting himself, _watches_ him remember.

And so, when he looks back up to Edrahil, seeking permission to touch –

Edrahil is helpless to deny him anything. He nods.

Findaráto’s hand alights, feather-soft.

Edrahil’s arms, holding him steady in place, nearly buckle as Findaráto traces the planes of his chest. It is not as if Findaráto has never seen this of him before – the whorls of ink that drip down from the hollow of his throat, the muscles defined by years of wielding sword and bearing shield, first in the prince Turukáno’s guard and now in Findaráto’s own. And yet somehow it _is_ as if Findaráto has never seen this of him before, because this time Edrahil has told him of what even his sharp eyes and questing fingers will not find – whatever invisible touch of the Ice it might have been that froze Edrahil in place, even now, so many years later.

His arms are shaking with the effort to remain still by the time Findaráto seems to decide that he is done exploring, and angles up for a kiss.

“Later. When you have finished.” Edrahil will not make him taste himself in Edrahil’s mouth. “It’s not clean.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Edrahil, if you think I care about that right now,” Findaráto protests, but Edrahil ducks away, vial still safely in hand, and reapplies himself to Findaráto’s stalling interest. “ _Edrahil_!”

He has a vial just like this one in his own quarters. It is empty – he has no need for it himself – but he lifted it from Findaráto’s chambers some time back so that he could practice working out the stopper even when otherwise occupied. And his practice has apparently paid off.

Slicked now, his finger traces patterns about the entrance to Findaráto’s body.

“Good, yes, _yes_ , _good_ , _Edrahil_ if you do not do something soon I will-“

Edrahil’s lips give an audible pop as he relinquishes his precious mouthful – he does not want to lose Findaráto quite yet – and settles himself more closely between Findaráto’s legs; Findaráto huffs but does not protest when Edrahil lays his head against one thigh. And so it is that Edrahil can feel every tremor of Findaráto’s skin and can watch, marveling, as his own finger presses gently in.

Findaráto gasps and whines but breathes, relaxing into a slow, deliberate pattern – inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Edrahil lets him settle there before changing anything else, but then when Findaráto’s breathing has lapsed back into its normal, he twists – ever so slow and oh so deliberate – and draws out again, so that only the tip, the close-cropped nail, yet remains within.

“I would kick you,” Findaráto gasps, “but then I’m afraid we’d lose _all_ the progress we’ve made so far. Come on, come on!”

If he pulls himself up a little further, Edrahil thinks, then maybe he can reach Findaráto’s cock as well. Hah – so he can.

And Findaráto groans when the finger slides in again, this time in tandem with a wet press of lips elsewhere. “Edrahil, please!”

The evening itself seems to slow then, matching the rhythm that Edrahil sets with the gradual addition of two more fingers. Findaráto mutters, between gasps, about guardsmen who take their damn time identifying threats, and Edrahil’s own breathless laughter must tremble against his cock, for although he does not take it all in again, he certainly still warms it from time to time. Everything is muted, unhurried, lingering – and, it strikes Edrahil without warning, all that he could have asked that it be, save only how Findaráto remains unsatisfied.

And so Edrahil unfurls all three fingers at once, reaching out within that smooth tight warmth to brush right against the sweet spot that he has been avoiding all this time.

He knows precisely where it is, and as he no longer has any reason to hold back, he strikes it every time.

Findaráto’s cries have no words any longer, not even his name.

And he does kick, now, but Edrahil does not mind – he abandons his ease against Findaráto’s thigh and returns to his elbows, working mouth and hand again in earnest, and it does not take much longer before Findaráto bursts across his tongue.

He is panting, softly, one arm thrown across his eyes, when Edrahil pulls back, and Edrahil cannot contain a growing smile, for all that Findaráto does not seem to have the energy to look for it yet.  

“Would you have me stay with you, or may I take a moment?” His own voice, unexpectedly rasping, is enough to make Edrahil shiver. He sounds like he has been put to use.

“Go, it’s fine, go,” Findaráto groans. His legs still twitch, now and again, with the force of his spending. “I know you will not take your ease until everything is cleaned up anyway, and _I’m_ certainly not going anywhere.”

He moans when Edrahil mouths at his belly one last time before rolling from the bed and striding into the bathing chamber adjacent, where he cleans his mouth in case Findaráto still desires kisses and prepares warm, damp cloths to clean him as much as will be possible without a full bath.

Though perhaps Findaráto will want that too, later, and if he does, well. Then Edrahil will be here for that as well.

Findaráto’s arm has dropped away from his eyes by the time these little tasks are completed and Edrahil returns to his bedside; he watches, rapt, and arches, humming, beneath Edrahil’s hands, obviously still sensitized but also appreciative of the gentle movements with which Edrahil wipes the sweat and spit and stains of release from his body. His eyes are very bright.

“And that was enough for you,” he says.

And Edrahil loves him all over again for the way that this is a statement and an acknowledgement rather than a question, for all that Findaráto must have seen the bulge when Edrahil re-entered the room.

But he answers as if it had been a question anyway. Just in case Findaráto still harbors any doubts.

“Yes.” The whisper is accompanied by a kiss to Findaráto’s brow, and then, when Findaráto grumbles wordlessly, another to his lips. “It was more than enough."

He does not add his thanks in so many words, but when Findaráto reaches up for him, sleepy and demanding, Edrahil goes.  


End file.
